Remember this date—October 31, 2011, for on this day a child was born—the 7 billionth person on the planet, in the Philippines.

And, as reported today in the Washington Post, the world is not just growing. It’s growing gray.

The aging of the human race has been faster than anyone could have imagined a few decades ago. Fertility rates have plunged globally; simultaneously, life spans have increased. The result is a re-contoured age graph: The pyramid, once with a tiny number of old folks at the peak and a broad foundation of children, is inverting. In wealthy countries, the graph already has a pronounced middle-age spread.

The implications for those living in the United States are already being felt, especially among members of my generation. We baby-boomers, the generation born between 1946 and 1964, are enjoying longer life-expectancies, thanks to improvements in nutrition and the miracles of modern medicine. The number of Americans age 60 to 64 jumped from 11 million to 17 million, according to the most recent census. But consider this: if we’re living longer, chances are we’ll also be working longer.

The Washington Post article notes that when Social Security was established in 1935, life expectancy in the United States was just under 62 years. Today it is 78 and rising. But before I write another word about Social Security, I should take a deep breath, tell myself not to hyperventilate, and instead refer to Jane Bryant Quinn’s new article on the AARP website: “The Truth About Social Security Myths.”

Okay. I feel much better already. Especially after reading Myth-Buster Number 1:

Myth No. 1: Social Security is going bankrupt. No, it’s not. Even in the unlikely event that nothing changes and the program’s entire surplus runs out in 2036, as projected, checks would keep coming. Payroll taxes at current rates would cover 77 percent of all the future benefits promised. That’s true for young and old alike, and includes inflation adjustments.

I trust Quinn implicitly; I’ve referred to her book, Making the Most of Your Money, for years, and see that a new edition,”revised for the new economy,” is now available.

Michelle Singletary, a columnist for the Washington Post, noted earlier this year what those of us slouching toward our 60s already know: you can take an early payout from Social Security at 62, but you’ll get far less than you would if you wait until you’re 70, when you qualify for the maximum payout. One useful tool that she recommends is the AARP online calculator, which helps one estimate Social Security benefits and the best time to begin claiming them.

And although I’m not frantic about the solvency of Social Security, I’m also not in any great hurry to get bad news. I began my career late in life—I was in my 30s when I started to earn in earnest—and, as I’ve noted earlier on this blog, I retired (but in name only) after nearly 20 years on the job in order to relocate. It’s no surprise, then, that money matters are weighing somewhat heavily on my mind. Retirement? Is it only a dream? And a fading one at that?

Do we all really want to work into our 70s? It would be nice not to have to, but quite frankly, I think that I’m fine with it, as long as I would be able to work at what I love. In fact, I couldn’t imagine not working at what I love. If I’m fortunate enough to make my living by my pen and keyboard, and if I can do that from the comfort of my own home and in my fluffy slippers, then why not? The new normal for me has changed, as it has for everyone in this economy. But the thing is, it would be nice to have a choice. And it would be nice for my husband, who works incredibly hard, to know he could look forward to a winding down and a slowing pace in the next 10 years or so. We got such a late start on our lives together; it would be nice to be able to enjoy the years that we have.

And so. We’ve started meeting with a financial adviser. With her guidance, and with some of the tools I’ve noted here, we will most definitely be taking a proactive approach to all of these money matters. I also plan to share some of her expertise with you in an upcoming Monday Morning Q & A, so please watch for that.

In the meantime, Happy Birthday to the little babe in the Philippines. Welcome to the world.

About the video: Pamela Myers singing “Another 100 People” from Stephen Sondheim’s Company, one of my favorite musicals. This footage, found on YouTube, is from filmmaker D.A. Pennebaker’s 1970 documentary about the making of the original Broadway cast album.

So many people have asked me why I started writing a blog that it made sense to include the query in TMSW’s Frequently Asked Questions. (You’ll see a link to FAQs at the top of this page.) It’s taken me until now, however, to drum up the courage to answer the question publicly. Like so many of the events of these past 14 months—my remarriage, my nominal retirement, my relocation—this blog represents my second act. If my life were a movie, this would be “Take 2.” And as long as I’m on a roll with the “re” prefix and the film metaphor, I guess I could call the act of starting a blog a rewrite. I am literally rewriting my career, and, in so doing, I am rewriting a substantial portion of the life I have yet to live. You see, I thought it would be easy to leave the great job that I had in Ohio and slide right into something comparable down here in Richmond—a swift, smooth, lateral move. I applied for several positions, was a finalist for two, and, for one of them, could have sworn I’d be bringing home a paycheck. I was wrong.

This is tough to admit, given the wonderful successes of my Ohio career—and even tougher to experience, especially in this economy. It was (here come those two leading letters again), rejection. And rejection hurts. I could speculate on whether it was my age, or the fact that I’m a newcomer-Yankee in a Southern, relationship-based town, that resulted in my rejection, but I’ve come to realize that none of that really matters now. This is the way things happened to shake out for me. What does matter is that I’d bloody well better get on with something, because the curtain is clearly going up on my second act and I’d better know my lines. I want to make the most of this—it’s an opportunity for (are you ready? am I?) reinvention. Also, there are bills to pay. And, if we’re lucky, real retirement to plan for.

L., a follower of the blog, commented earlier this month:

While I end my 25 years working for the same company which is closing and laid off everyone recently-my last day will be Friday – it has been entertaining to read your blogs each day with some funny happy things to distract me from the next chapter that I will be facing , finding a new job! So congratulations to you.

It’s tough out there for many of us. It hurts to hear of yet another person out of a job. John and I have our own personal experience with this, which I’ll share, with his blessing, in a future post. At this juncture, it might be helpful for L. and others to know that there are some amazing and smart books, blogs, and websites here on the other side of the looking glass. I’ve discovered most of these since starting TMSW, and have been bookmarking and list-making like mad for the time when I’ll have the time to give them all a careful perusal. For now, here’s a non-comprehensive list:

As for what L. wrote about finding entertainment in the “funny happy” things on my blog? Well, this particular post, maybe not so much. It’s not feeling like a real knee-slapper to me. But that’s life, no? There are dark corners; sometimes we try to find the funny and the happy to light our way out of them. Or sometimes we just start writing.

And that is (one) answer to “Why the blog?” Here are some others:

Because I’m not trained to do anything else, or at least no one has hired me to do what I was trained for.

Because I love to write.

Because I can write. And because sometimes I think that all I cando is write.

Because it’s time to get serious about getting back to my writing dream.

Because I still have so much to learn.

Because I want to feel useful, and be of use to others.

Because I want to contribute financially to our marriage and to our future.

Because maybe something will come of this blogging business.

Because sometimes it feels as though I’m on to something. Or maybe it’s just gas.

Several years ago, I purchased a wonderful cookbook, Soups, Stews, and One-Pot Meals. The book’s co-author, chef Tom Valenti, is acclaimed in the food world for his two New York City restaurants, Ouest and ‘Cesca; the praise of such redoubtable food critics as Ruth Reichl and Gael Greene; being named one of the country’s “Ten Best Chefs” by Food & Wine magazine; and his four cookbooks, to list just a few reasons. Chef Valenti is also a humanitarian and philanthropist—CNN deemed him a “national hero” for establishing Windows of Hope, a nonprofit organization that provided aid to the families of food-service workers killed during the World Trade Center attack on September 11.

He’s also one heck of a nice guy.

In my kitchen, the advent of autumn is meaningless unless I prepare Chef Valenti’s Ham Hock and Split Pea Soup to herald its arrival, and I make it religiously throughout the winter. Indeed, the very act of creating this soup is akin to a religious act for me—using my chef’s knife to render the vegetables into the “small dice” he requires, sautéeing the aromatic ingredients, tossing the fragrant marjoram into the pot…the entire process is a comforting series of rituals, and the result yields one of my favorite comfort foods. I wanted to share the recipe with you here, but not without his permission. I sent my request to the e-mail address on the website for Ouest, and then turned my attention to the business of downloading the iOS5 software for my iPhone—a process that took about two hours. When things were back up and running, I rather hoped to see an e-mail reply from one of Chef Valenti’s employees, but the e-mail cupboard was bare. What I did notice, however, was a voice message alerting me to a call I’d missed while my iPhone was out-of-pocket. Chef Tom Valenti took the time to telephone me, leaving a message giving me his permission to publish the recipe on The Midlife Second Wife.

Yes. A heck of a nice guy. And one phenomenal chef with a great recipe for split pea soup. I like to serve this with a crusty French baguette and a hearty cheddar cheese. Enjoy!

1. Put the split peas in a bowl and cover with cold water. Set aside.
2. Heat the oil in a large, heavy-bottomed pot over medium heat until hot but not smoking. Add the carrot, onion, and celery; season with salt, pepper, and a pinch of sugar; and cook, stirring, until the vegetables soften, 5 to 7 minutes. Add the garlic and cook for another 2 minutes.
3. Drain the split peas and add them to the pot. Add the bay leaf, marjoram, broth, and ham hocks. Give a good stir and bring the liquid to a boil over high heat, continuing to stir to keep the peas from scorching. Lower the heat, cover, and simmer for 1 hour.
4. Use tongs or a slotted spoon to remove the ham hocks from the pot. Set them aside on a plate. Cook the soup for 30 minutes longer, or until the peas and other vegetables have completely broken down and the soup has thickened considerably. If it becomes too thick, add more stock or water (see note).
5. While the soup is simmering, and as soon as the ham hocks have cooled enough to work with, use your hands to remove the meat from the bones, shredding it as you work. There won’t be a lot of it, but what is there is very flavorful. Set the meat aside.
6. When the soup is done, use tongs or a spoon to remove and discard the bay leaf and marjoram springs. Taste and correct seasoning, bearing in mind that the bits of ham are salty. Add the reserved ham to the pot. If not serving immediately, let cool, cover, and refrigerate for a few days or freeze for up to 1 month. Reheat before proceeding.
7. To serve, ladle the soup into individual bowls and drizzle with extra-virgin olive oil. Scatter some thyme leaves over each serving, if desired, or float a garlic crouton on top of each bowl.

Tom Valenti note:
A lot of American cooks are unfamiliar with ham hocks, even though they’re a staple in the South. I first discovered them as a child when my grandmother took me along on her excursions to the supermarket. While she stood talking to the butcher, my eye would wander over to the refrigerated meats section. For the longest time, I didn’t even ask what these funny-looking, prewrapped, precooked, brown things were, but in time I learned that they were smoked ham hocks. They’ve become one of my favorite incarnations of pork. They’re user-friendly and have great utility. They also give off a lot of natural gelatin, which acts as a subtle thickening agent, adding body to soups
and sauces.

A Note About Garlic From TMSW:It’s time that we had a talk here on the blog about garlic. I’ve been meaning to bring this up for some while. It’s the rare recipe in our household that doesn’t call for garlic, and not just because I’m Lebanese and Sicilian. I love everything about cooking with garlic: the way it flavors a dish, its aromatic properties, and the little ritual I perform each time I use it, which is what I want to discuss with you. (No. It has nothing to do with halitosis. If you like, that’s an issue we can address when I introduce a beauty and grooming department on the blog.)

Back in the seventies, before I was a YoungLifeFirstWife, I worked with a woman who, by day, was a court stenographer. But by night, she was an amateur gourmet cook—a fabulous one. Although I was barely 20, she must have seen some sort of cooking glimmer in my eye, for she began sharing some of her recipes with me. A few of them called for garlic, and it was at this juncture that she shared with me her secret for avoiding the heartburn that people sometimes suffer after ingesting the pungent, herbal bulb.

“Take your garlic clove and slice it lengthwise down the middle,” Aldona advised. “You’ll see a pale green shoot, which is actually the root of the allium.” (A highly intellectual cook, she never missed an opportunity to further my education.)

“Pry this slender root out of each half of the garlic and throw it away. That root is the source of heartburn. Do this, and you’ll never have an unfortunate reaction to eating food prepared with garlic.”

I was far too young and inexperienced to know that my future would contain recipes calling for either the entire head of garlic, or whole cloves—unminced, unchopped, or unpressed. For recipes such as those, I throw caution to the winds. I never have had a case of heartburn from eating garlic-infused dishes, either, so I’m thinking that I fortified my system all these years—sort of like creating an allium armor—by removing the root at every reasonable opportunity.

A couple of weeks ago, a friend of the blog wrote to say that around the time I used her euphemism for high heels—curb shoes—in my interview with Dr. Amanda Miller, she was, coincidentally, trying on a pair of gorgeous ones. Before I share with you what C. had to say, you’ll want to know that according to the Guardian (and reported by Huff Post Style), a recent study revealed that 40-percent of high-heel wearers have suffered an accident in them. Hurts just to think about it, doesn’t it? You can read the complete Guardian article here, or visit Huffington Post‘s take on the story here.

You’ll recall that my friend’s term refers to the fact that the shoes one wears are impossible to walk in: “Please pick me up at the curb or drop me off at the curb.” Hence, curb shoes. Here’s her story:

In the end I chose not to buy them due to the very concerned look on my husband’s face as he watched me (try) to walk around the store. He didn’t appreciate my reasoning, which went like this: “But when I am just standing in place they look fabulous!” I, too, have been suffering with back problems, which have been attributed to leg length discrepancy. I’ve been working with a chiropractor and massage therapist over the past year and I regularly “engage my core.” I am seeing results slowly but surely.

Be careful, ladies. It’s a fashion runway out there, and we’re all Carrie Bradshaw, just one sashay away from disaster.

Well, it just gets better and better. Today the Washington Post reported on new research related to my favorite beverage. According to findings of the American Association for Cancer Research, coffee-drinkers are at a reduced risk for developing basal cell carcinoma, the most common form of skin cancer. The odds are better for women than for men. (Sorry, guys.) My thanks to Lucy Carson and her awesome Twitter feed for bringing this to my attention. You can read the article here, along with last week’s post and your favorite cup of joe. Bottom’s up!

When you remarry in middle age, the chances are good that you’ll be enlarging your family by more than one person. Between us, John and I now have three sons. (Before remarrying, my boy was the only child of an only child—me.) At the time of our wedding, the three boys were, in fact, not boys at all but young men: my Matthew was 29; John’s Patrick was 23, and Colin had just turned 18. And that is the last time I shall refer to them in an individual, proprietary way; they are ours now. Guys, I know you’re reading this. We love you.

Much has been written about blended families, or bonded families, or whatever euphemism you wish to use. But I find myself coming back to Wendy Swallow’s book, The Triumph of Love Over Experience; she writes with great sensitivity on the challenges inherent in merging two families when the children are adolescents or younger:

“We hardly thought of the boys as baggage, but there they were nonetheless, hulking young men with their own perfectly appropriate teenage issues and growing suspicions about the intimacy between us. Whether they liked it or not, they were passengers on this journey …”

Passengers on a journey…what a wonderful metaphor! I’ll have a question or two about the stepchild aspect of remarriage when I interview Wendy for this blog. But for now, and to paraphrase Tolstoy, I can’t help observing that every original family is alike; every blended family is blended in its own way.

In John’s and my case, we’ve had scant time or opportunity to engage as a cohesive family unit since our marriage. We relocated from Ohio to Virginia when John was offered a job here. Matthew, already graduated from college, has his own established life in Ohio; Patrick is busy attending graduate school in Illinois; Colin, also in Ohio, is in his first year of college. Varied schedules and the vagaries of geography have kept us apart more than they have brought us together, and John and I knew it would be thus. Aside from one major holiday, our wedding was the only time our three sons have been together with us. When we were planning our wedding, then, the question of how to encourage each young man to feel a part of something new, vital, loving, and familial was paramount. What roles could they perform in the wedding to secure our mutual bonds? And what—if anything—should we do with respect to ceremonial vows?

An Australian blogger here on WordPress, “Stepmum of the Year,” posed the question with more than a little trepidation. She has no children; her partner, known on her blog as “The Lovely Man,” has three boys, all pre-adolescent or close to it. Stepmum and Lovely Man are getting married; he has asked that his sons be included somehow in the ceremony, suggesting that perhaps they even write vows to them. Given her life experience and the ages of the children, she is understandably cautious, and in this terrific list, she exhibits sage wisdom:

I’m absolutely not going to say anything that doesn’t feel true.
I’m not ready to promise the kids anything that isn’t entirely in my power to deliver, or shouldn’t be solely my responsibility…
And I refuse to say anything that might tighten the choke hold of their loyalty binds – no “Yay, new family, love everyone, take you to be my children, yay!” kinds of things. Honestly, I Googled “stepfamily wedding vows” and there was so much schmaltz that I entered a whole new emotional state – kind of a cross between nauseated and despairing.

So? What’s a soon-to-be “stepmum” to do?

Given the differences in our circumstances, the approach that John and I took might not work for the Aussies; those concerns, however, inspired me to share this part of our story on the blog. And I should tell you that it is only with the permission of my husband and all three of our sons that I am doing so; if even one of them had a moment’s hesitation, you’d be reading something else right now.

To begin with, John and I felt that it was important for the boys to actively participate in the ceremony itself.

My mother walked me down the aisle at my first wedding; my father had died when I was 13. Now, with my second wedding at hand, who was the logical choice? My mother had passed away in 2000.

There was no doubt: it should be Matthew. In no way, however, was he “giving me away.” Aside from being a rather archaic expression, the phrase was packed with meanings I didn’t want him to carry: I am, and always will be, his mom. He doesn’t “give me away” to anybody. Instead, he “presented me” to John, as in: “Mister Groom, may I present Ms. Bride?”

Patrick was John’s Best Man, and he and Colin ushered guests to their seats and lit the candles prior to the ceremony. All three of our sons gave beautiful readings during the ceremony. These were clearly age-appropriate roles. Engaged couples with small children might not find them to be the best candidates for candle lighting; perhaps they could guide guests to their seats instead? Or serve as junior members of the wedding party?

At the end of the day, though, this is all just logistics. John and I still wanted to publicly acknowledge our love for our guys, yet we didn’t want to detract from our own vows to each other. And here is where I should add that we opted for the steeped-in-tradition vows from the Book of Common Prayer: This is what John said to me after taking my right hand in his:

“In the Name of God, I, John, take you, Marci, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until we are parted by death. This is my solemn vow.”

My vows to John were the same. We loved the simplicity of these words, rich with meaning. At this stage in our lives, it just didn’t make sense to tamper with tradition. Although timeworn (not unlike us!), these vows perfectly expressed what we were, and are, acutely aware of: our union truly is “for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health.”

As for vows to our children, the “Marriage Missions International” website was of considerable help. We would, however, articulate these vows in our own special staging. Allow me to explain with a brief bit of back story.

On our first date, June 14, 2009, John and I met outside the Allen Memorial Art Museum on the campus of Oberlin College, where I worked. Slightly to the south of the museum sits an ancient European Weeping Beech Tree and an arbor. In June, this tree was in full foliage; we sat beneath its branches, talking and getting to know one another. And laughing! We both laughed so hard and so happily that a couple, peering through the foliage, said:

“There are people here. We couldn’t see anyone; we thought this was a laughing tree.”

And so it was that one year and two months—to the day—after we first met, following the formal ceremony in Fairchild Chapel, John and I led our guests in a brief procession around part of Tappan Square until we reached the Bacon Arbor and our Laughing Tree. It looked like the Sicilian Wedding scene in The Godfather, Part I.

When all were assembled beneath the arbor, John began:

“Matthew, I want you to know that I dearly love your mother. She and I met beneath this tree, and this spot is hallowed ground to us. We have become very good friends over this past year and we have learned to love each other. As you have so graciously shared this wonderful woman with me, so will I share the love I feel for her with you. Together, we will learn much more about each other.

At this place that means so much to your mother and me, I promise also to be fair and to be honest, to be available for you as I am for your mom, and in due time, to earn your love, respect, and true friendship. I will not attempt to replace anyone, but to make a place in your heart that is for me alone. I will be father and friend, and I will cherish my life with you. On this day, when I marry your mom, I marry you, and I promise to love and support you as my own.”

Then it was my turn:

“Patrick and Colin, I want you to know that I dearly love your father. He and I met beneath this tree, and this spot is hallowed ground to us. We have become very good friends over this past year and we have learned to love each other. As you have so graciously shared this wonderful man with me, so will I share the love I feel for him with both of you. Together, we will learn much more about each other.

At this place that means so much to your father and me, I promise also to be fair and to be honest, to be available for you as I am for your dad, and in due time, to earn your love, respect, and true friendship. I will not attempt to replace anyone, but to make a place in your heart that is for me alone. I will be mother and friend, and I will cherish my life with you. On this day, when I marry your dad, I marry you, and I promise to love and support you as my own.”

Reading my vows to Patrick and Colin

John and I also wanted to say a few words to the boys we each raised, especially since we would be, within two short weeks, moving so very far away:

Patrick and Colin, my sons, thank you for the generosity with which you have welcomed Marci—and Matthew—into your lives. Thank you for being such an important part of our wedding ceremony. And thank you for being such wonderful and fine young men. I love you both forever, and Marci and I will always be there for you, no matter how many miles separate us.”

“Matthew, my son, thank you for the generosity with which you have welcomed John—and Patrick and Colin—into your life. Thank you for being such an important part of our wedding ceremony. And thank you for being such a wonderful and fine young man. I love you forever, and John and I will always be there for you, no matter how many miles separate us.”

Our celebrant, Brian K. Wilbert, concluded this moving part of our ceremony with the sign of peace.

Happy Saturday, everyone! I typically try not to work on the weekend, but I just had to share this with you. It’s a cozy day at home, and John is puttering around listening to his favorite Pandora station—Kenny Rankin. He came up to have me listen to a song by Michael Franks. “This is your song,” he said. When I heard it, I knew I had to add it to the post with Grandma Monia’s recipe for breaded eggplant. The name of the song is—say it along with me—”Eggplant.” According to JRFMRadio’s posting on YouTube, this was recorded live at La Cigale in Paris on October 7, 2010. And since I’ve been wanting to add a department for the arts, I herewith inaugurate “The Musical Life” section of the blog with this entry. Enjoy!

Serves 4, with ample leftovers. Kept in a tightly sealed plastic container or on a plate covered tightly with plastic wrap, these should keep for about a week refrigerated.

A word before you begin:It’s always a good idea to read through a recipe a couple of times before you launch into things. That said, please don’t let the length of this recipe scare you away—it’s an easy dish to prepare! I tried to be as detailed as I could because for this dish, it’s all about preparation and process. Have all of your ingredients at hand and ready before you start, and give yourself ample time for working on this, because once you begin frying the eggplant you really need to remain at the stove until you’re finished. But trust me: the reward will be delicious!

Fill a pot with cold, salted water and set aside. (I find the plastic tub from my salad spinner is perfect for this.)

With a vegetable peeler, remove the skin from the eggplant. Using a sharp knife, trim off the ends. Using the same knife or a mandoline slicer, carefully slice the eggplant into large discs, approximately ¼ -inch thick, placing each slice immediately into the waiting tub of salted water.

Let the eggplant slices soak for about ten minutes. Drain the water and rinse the eggplant slices with cold water, then refill the tub with cold salted water and repeat the soaking process.

(Why go to all of this bother? Because you’ll notice the water from the first rinse, and even the second, will be a yucky brown. The salted water is drawing the bitterness out of the eggplant. Trust me.

Drain and rinse well, then pat the slices dry with paper towels.

Whisk the eggs in a bowl large enough to hold several eggplant slices.

Now set up your preparation area:

Using a breading pan, place about two cups of breadcrumbs and one cup Parmesan cheese in one of its sections; mix well with a fork. (If you don’t have a breading pan, use two baking sheets with sides—I use two old pizza pans. Don’t do anything with the other section or the second baking sheet or pizza pan yet; you will use it to hold the breaded slices.

Line a third baking sheet with paper towels. Set aside. (You’ll use this to drain the fried eggplant.)

Place the sliced eggplant, three to four slices at a time, in the egg wash and making sure to coat each side thoroughly.

Then, one at a time, place an egg-washed slice of eggplant in the crumb-and-cheese mixture, pressing firmly enough to ensure a good, even coat of crumbs on each side. Set the breaded eggplant slice on the extra pan you have set aside. Continue this process until all of the slices have been breaded.

Over medium heat, warm a large sauté pan for about 30 seconds, then add enough good quality olive oil to coat the bottom of the pan. Increase the heat to medium-high. Once the oil is hot, place several eggplant slices in the pan, taking care not to crowd them. Brown for about five minutes or until the bottoms are golden brown, then turn them over and brown the other side. When the first batch is complete, remove from the pan and drain on the large, paper-towel-lined pan you had set aside. Then place a layer of paper towels on top of the fried eggplant slices, ready to receive the next fried batch. (You’ll end up with paper towels between each layer of eggplant.)

Complete this process until all of the eggplant has been fried. Note that after about two fryings, you’ll need to carefully drain the hot oil from the pan and replenish it with fresh oil, repeating this process as needed. (An empty coffee can works great for this.) You don’t want the oil to get black and smoky; this will burn the eggplant and ruin the taste. What you are looking for is nicely golden-brown slices.

Serve warm, or prepare ahead and refrigerate. These are delicious cold; I’ve never tried to reheat them. You can eat them plain. (I dare you to have enough left over to serve guests!) Although I’ve never felt the urge to reheat them, John suggests doing so and serving them with a warm marinara dipping sauce.)

Incidentally, this is also a great first-step in making Eggplant Parmesan—something that I’ve never attempted, for some inexplicable reason. As someone who is half-Sicilian and thinks her Italian cooking skills are pretty sharp, I’m embarrassed to admit this to you. Now I’ll have to hunt for a good recipe. If you have a great recipe for Eggplant Parmesan that you’d like to share, please post it in the comment section following this recipe!

As much as I’ve always loved clothes, no one could ever mistake me for a fashion trendsetter. I mean, come on. Until last year, I lived in Ohio. For my entire life. (No offense, Buckeye State. I love you and always will.) But three days after posting an essay on the blog about wearing black for my second wedding, a friend on Facebook sent me a link to an October 19 ABC News story about acclaimed wedding gown designer Vera Wang’s newest collection. I found additional coverage from Buzz60 via YouTube. Take a look:

I’m sensing that announcer Maureen Aladin isn’t a fan of the look. What about you? If you were getting married again, would you wear black? Would you consider it if you were planning a first wedding? Share your comments below. And have a great weekend!

National Coffee Day 2011 has come and gone (it was September 29), but, as Kismet and UPS Ground would have it, I was able to celebrate the occasion with my shipment of Zabar’s coffee.

I first discovered the wonders of Zabar’s miraculous brew on a trip to New York City several years ago. I was traveling for the Oberlin Conservatory of Music, where I worked, and my hotel was just down the block from the famed Upper West Side delicatessen. I dropped in to start my day with a cup of coffee and a bagel, and I was transported. The coffee I made at home didn’t taste like this: this was rich and smooth, with varying notes of flavor, and not at all bitter. I bought two pounds of the Number 7 grind to take back with me to Ohio—Zabar’s blend, the roast I had ordered—and hazelnut decaffeinated. To this day I order two pounds of each (shipping is free at these quantities), and I keep them in the freezer until my canister needs refilling.

My mornings have always seem rushed. (Of course they do! I can’t work up any traction until I’ve had my coffee!) And as much as I’d like to tell you that I grind my own beans for each pot, the process is much more streamlined. Nevertheless, the methodology I’ve devised is specific, never varies, and never fails to yield what I believe to be the perfect cup of coffee:

My canister is always filled with equal parts Zabar’s blend and Zabar’s hazelnut decaf, and I use two coffee scoops of this to ten cups of water in my automatic drip coffee maker. But before I push the filter drawer in and flip the switch on, I sprinkle cinnamon on top of the grounds.

I have served coffee this way every day for years, and every time that I have company. The results are always the same—delicious—and friends and family want to know my secret. So I go to my freezer, pull out the bags of Zabar’s, and tell them.

And now I’m telling you.

(Truth be told, I rarely make coffee anymore. Why? My husband, who is not a coffee drinker, typically wakes up before I do. He makes the coffee most mornings, and brings me a fresh cup with the Richmond Times-Dispatch. Sorry ladies. He’s taken.)

You know, now that I think about it, I have been drinking coffee for as long as I can remember. My first sense-memory is that of a comforting concoction prepared for me by my mother. I must have been around ten or so. Milk filled at least two-thirds of the mug, but the coffee taste was unmistakably there. It brought to mind chocolate that wasn’t chocolate. I was hooked, promptly began dunking my buttered toast, and never looked back.

Turns out my mother might have been on to something.

A “Healthy Living Brief” on the Huffington Post reported on a recent Harvard University study, the results of which are fascinating, and a shot of caffeine in the arm of women who might be admonished for drinking too much of the beverage:

Women who consumed two to three cups of caffeinated joe per day had a 15-percent lower risk of depression than non-coffee drinkers, while those who drank four-plus cups daily had a 20-percent lower risk. In general, women are more likely than men to be diagnosed with depression.

“Our results support a possible protective effect of caffeine, mainly from coffee consumption, on risk of depression,” the researchers wrote … in the Archives of Internal Medicine. The researchers followed more than 50,000 participants in the Nurses Health Study—one of the largest women’s health studies in the U.S.—for 10 years.

And guys, take heart. National Public Radio’s report on this study also noted earlier research, including a study among men, suggesting that caffeine could possibly have a protective effect against certain prostate cancers.

The Harvard study’s authors did caution that their results must be replicated before any firm conclusions can be drawn about caffeine and depression risk. The Archives of Internal Medicine is a peer-reviewed medical journal published by the American Medical Association.

The AMA might not think too highly of the following recipe, given its quantities of luscious half-and-half, whipping cream, and ice cream, but all (good) things in moderation, right? I discovered this delicious coffee punch at a holiday open house hosted by a wonderful cooking school in Vermilion, Ohio—Laurel Run. Owner Marcia DePalma is not only a culinary genius, she is also a wonderful teacher. I attended some of her cooking classes when I lived in Ohio. With typical generosity, she graciously allowed me to share her recipe with you. I’ve made this twice, and it was a huge hit with my guests. If you’re hosting a party this holiday season and want your guests to mingle, you might think about having several smaller bowls of this stationed throughout your house; people will cluster around it, I promise you.